


For I Have Sinned

by thekeyholder



Series: Lead Me Not Into Temptation [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Religious, Anal Sex, Deal with a Devil, Dreams, Good and Evil, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: Father James Gordon has to decide between God and The King of Hell.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Lead Me Not Into Temptation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1171961
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	For I Have Sinned

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I KNOW... I'm terrible at multi-chapter stories, and can't believe it always takes me a year and a half to update. It blows my mind that I posted part 1 before I got my current job, like... where did the time go?!
> 
> Anyway, if you decided to read this, I'm ever so grateful! I hope you enjoy, and if you feel inclined, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. :)
> 
> Many thanks to Nekomata58919 for the beta.

Most of his life, Father James had been living with guilt. It was a constant companion, always looming, always casting a shadow over each of his thoughts and actions. It was as if it had become a part of his being, a layer so deeply embedded and impenetrable that nothing would ever get through.

Except for Oswald.

The truth he had gifted to Jim practically absolved him of most of his guilt. Logically, Jim knew that he was not guilty of his father's death, and yet it was impossible not to blame himself. If they hadn't gone to the diner, if he hadn't had the football practice, if if if…

Somehow Oswald's story managed to dissolve some of the guilt, thin it out and make it easier to bear for Jim. Knowing the truth, despite its terrible nature, that everything was organised, that it wasn't just random events, helped him process it. His father ultimately died like a hero for the truth.

However, Father James soon realised that his old companion was loath to leave him. He began to learn that guilt could take several forms and plague him in different ways.

His thoughts about Oswald were now smudged with the shameful memory of his erotic dream. He just couldn't shake it off. Even worse, Jim knew he liked it and wanted the dream reoccur, then felt sick and ashamed of himself.

The days grew colder and darker, and Father James feared the same was happening to him. He went on with his strict schedule and diet, not noticing the circles under his eyes or the tremor in his hand. Saturday night he stayed up late despite his blinding headache, writing a sermon for the next day and reading it until the words became blurry.

He woke up Sunday morning with a deep ache in his whole body and a migraine. Although Jim recognised the signs of illness, he stubbornly carried on with his routine, instead of calling the deacon. He took two pills and put on his vestments, then just sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.

He didn't feel like eating; in fact, his stomach was unsettled, the thought of food making it revolt. Jim told himself that the pills were going to kick in any minute now.

He stumbled when it was time to go to church, his knees buckling under his body. He asked God for help before entering the building. He couldn't even muster a smile at Deacon Alvarez. 

"Are you alright, Father?" 

"Yes, yes, just a cold," he replied, suddenly troubled by the man using his official title. Had he really never told Alvarez to call him Jim? To be fair, he wasn’t even sure what was the deacon's first name, Carlos maybe? Jim remembered all the times when he turned down the man's invitation to go out for drinks. He had willingly isolated himself, built up walls that people eventually became tired of trying to tear down.

Jim kept his gaze down as the deacon helped him with the cassock. He reached for the folder with his sermon, but accidentally swept it off the table instead, notes flying everywhere. He kneeled, panic washing over him. He could barely hear the deacon say that he would get them. Jim's hands trembled as he gathered the papers around him, then accepted the ones from Alvarez. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" 

"Of course. I just have to sit down for a bit."

He exhaled, wiping his clammy hands on his trousers, underneath the robe. He was not well, but he wouldn't want to smear his holy clothes. Some minutes passed, though Jim couldn't tell how much. He stood on shaky legs, entering the church while the congregation sang a hymn. He tried remembering the words to it, mouthing them, unsure of what he was actually singing. He just needed to make it to the altar.

After a short prayer, he started his sermon. Everything went well for five minutes, Jim ignoring all the signs his body was giving him to stop, and instantly drop himself into the nearest bed possible. He was stubborn, and soldiered on, until someone's baby started crying, the noise wrenching him out of his concentration. 

Father James tried to focus, although the throbbing in his head became even more excruciating. He was leafing through his notes, the thread of his thought broken. What was the last word he said? Mercy… God's mercy. That's what he needed too, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. What was his flock going to think of his pauses?

“God's mercy is infinite,” he said finally, looking up, the golden lights of the chandeliers making him see colourful spots. He held onto the altar, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Jim’s chest constricted even further as he felt the eyes of the congregation on him, judging him silently. His whole being was burning up, no doubt his sin catching up with him. Could he spontaneously combust because he, a blasphemous priest, set foot in church?

He wasn't sure how long he stayed silent, his rapid breaths the only thing he could focus on. 

“God's mercy…” his eyes landed on a very dear face in the crowd, Oswald's brows furrowing with worry over his beautiful eyes.

Seeing him was the last straw for his overloaded senses. Father James saw Oswald get up from the pew before he lost his consciousness.

* * *

Everything was muddled and mute. The images hit him with an indescribable force, a sickening pain spreading in his body.

Father James saw bodies, mutilated ones, on top of each other. They didn't look entirely human – some had horns or claws, and others had wings, bird-like, or ones that looked more like bat wings. 

Then suddenly Jim saw a figure circling in the sky, great black wings slowing as the creature landed on top of a mound where there was some movement, someone's arm trying to get a better grip. The winged figure was Oswald, dressed in actual armour, his breastplate reflecting the red light of the setting sun.

Suddenly, Oswald took a sword out of its shield, raised it high in the air, the blade glinting in the sun before it was plunged into the body underneath him. It stopped moving altogether.

Oswald wiped blood splatters from his face, looking around with obvious haughtiness before he took flight toward the blood red sky.

Jim didn’t have time to think or digest what he’d seen; he was thrown from dream to dream, time nonexistent in this maddening spiral. Some visions only lasted a second, others were more elaborate. He saw Oswald kneeling in the midst of other angels, but then he looked up and fire was burning in his eyes. Jim saw him kill and do other terrible things while still wearing angel wings.

But the worst, oh the worst, was when he got his punishment. Oswald was pushed roughly, falling to the ground. Someone stepped on his right knee, Oswald’s face scrunching up in pain. He tried to crawl away, but the attacker put their foot on Oswald’s back and two hands grabbed his wings, close to where they grew out from his shoulder blades and then just pulled and pulled.

Father James flinched, and though there was no sound to his dream, he felt its force shaking the whole world. An angry wind came out of nowhere and darkened the skies with threatening clouds. If he were ever asked, this was how Father James imagined the end of the world.

And it was, at least for someone, in some way.

Oswald was pushed off and he fell and fell, wingless, arms stretched towards Heaven.

He’d lost his home and his father.

* * *

Father James was in and out of his fever dreams. Sometimes he felt someone's presence beside him, giving him water to drink or asking him something, but he wasn’t conscious for long enough to even understand, let alone answer.

The other visions he had showed Oswald without his wings, the flames Jim had seen in his eyes now always there, determined and merciless. 

The creatures he had previously slain were now under his command, and his former brothers in arms were the enemy. He was just as skilled with the sword on the other side, swinging it high in the air and leading his army of demons.

Jim was shaken, and though maybe he should have been scared, that particular emotion eluded him completely. The last dream he remembered was Oswald being crowned King of Hell, blood dripping from the silver metal onto Oswald's pale forehead, his usual smirk playing on his lips.

* * *

It could have been an hour or three days, Father James had no idea how long he'd been out for when he managed to stay awake for more than a couple of minutes. He soon became aware of a person sitting by his bed.

“Oswald…” Jim murmured, and even through the fever, relief cut the iron cage around his ribs. He was alright. Oswald was alright.

“James, my dear.” Jim smiled, even as he fought the heaviness of his eyelids, the concern in Oswald's voice only trumped by the gentle way he put his cool hand over Jim's brow. “You’re still burning up.”

“I saw you… in my dreams,” Jim whispered.

Oswald's eyes were just as beautiful as he remembered them, wide open but harbouring secrets. He looked at Jim, searching his face, perhaps with a hint of apprehension. “What dreams? Your sleep didn’t seem restful.”

Jim couldn't look away, didn't want to actually. “You as an angel and how you… fell.” He watched as Oswald took a damp cloth and wiped Jim's face and neck, lips set in a thin line. 

“I'm sorry you had to see that, James. It's really unfair of Him to punish you for…”

Oswald closed his eyes as he exhaled audibly. Jim didn't want to see him upset, not on his behalf, so he raised his hand, fingertips grazing Oswald's wrist. Jim watched, fascinated, as his dark lashes fluttered, before he raised his eyes to Jim's.

“Are they real?”

Oswald didn’t say anything, but Jim knew the answer. 

“Thank you… for being here,” Jim said, and though he wanted to reach for Oswald’s hand and hold it, he stopped himself.

They watched each other for a long time, then Oswald got up and leaned over him, eyes darting around his face, as if tracing Jim's every feature.

“You'll get better soon, Jim,” he said,  _ promised _ , and then kissed Jim's lips, lingering, so softly it made Jim's chest ache.

He sank into a deep sleep, no more dreams torturing him.

* * *

The next day, Jim felt much more invigorated and he got out of bed for the first time in days. His sudden recovery was unusual, and as he sipped his coffee in his tiny kitchen, he suspected that Oswald had something to do with it. As were the well-stocked shelves with cooked food in his fridge and the many calls and messages on his phone. His congregation was worried about him, and Father James smiled to himself, warmth spreading in his chest. 

He looked at the other chair, the one in which Oswald had sat in when he’d visited, and swallowed hard. If only he were there… Father James stopped blaming Oswald for his thoughts and the things that had been happening to him the moment he regained his consciousness after his illness. 

Although he didn't know for certain, Jim had a feeling that Oswald had been by his side the whole time. He may have had ulterior motives – Jim was actually convinced of that – but he had nothing to gain from nursing a silly priest who had neglected his health. What a curious being he was.

Father James started eating properly again and he slowly gained his strength back. His mental state was also becoming much more stable, and his nights were troubled no more. Things seemed to be going back to normal.

He itched to go back to church, so about a week after his collapse he mustered his strength and walked over there, just to check that everything was alright. The church seemed unchanged, solid and welcoming with its flickering candles all around. Jim went to his office next, Deacon Alvarez surprised to see him. 

“Father James, I thought you were still recovering! The doctor said you'd need at least two weeks.”

“What doctor?”

“You know, your friend. When you uh… fainted in the church, he took care of you. He gave you medicine and he made sure you would be settled in your house. We wanted to take you to a hospital, but he said you'd get better sooner at home. Guess he was right, you must have been in good hands.”

Jim had to stifle a smile. So Oswald now played his doctor. The devil did like his disguises. And Jim had to give it to him, his kiss really did work miracles. Of course, he’d never tell that to the Deacon. Or anyone. 

“Yes, he's indeed very good.”

After that they just discussed some administrative matters and some upcoming charity events. They even managed to draft a list of potential helpers and their plans.

“That's all for now, Father James. It's enough for today.”

“It's okay, we can discuss-”

Deacon Alvarez practically pushed him outside the office. “Absolutely not, you need to rest. Go on a walk or read something. See you later, Father James.”

Jim took a walk in a nearby park as the Deacon suggested. It was nice outside, but the Sun was weak, its light not sharing a lot of warmth. He hoped Oswald would suddenly appear by his side and hook his arm through Jim's, or just show up from the opposite direction, leaning on his umbrella and smiling at Jim.

However, Jim didn't encounter anyone, so he had to walk home alone with his heavy heart. Perhaps it was foolish to hope that the devil would pay you a visit, but Jim was in need of company. After getting a taste of caring from another being, it was difficult to go back to his lonely ways. 

* * *

Jim didn’t have a green thumb, but he definitely enjoyed having a garden next to his cottage. It was small and he did his best to keep it tidy. The previous owner was definitely more talented than him, so he left the design as he had found it. All around, demarking his territory, were raspberry and blackberry bushes. They were wild things, so he sometimes needed to trim them, otherwise they would have overtaken the garden.

By the house, the garden was boasting of deep red roses, the petals so plush and dark that they looked like velvet. Jim sometimes even cut them to use as decorations on the altar of the church, though they were so lush that they would have suited best the room of a lover.

However, the pride of the garden was a beautiful apple tree, right in the middle, the queen of this small kingdom. It was probably just as old as the house, or even older. Majestic and tall, tough and sturdy. And bountiful, its branches heavy with fruit.

“Apple trees are so simple. They just need soil and water.”

“And a bit of love doesn’t hurt either.” Jim plucked two apples, then rubbed them on his cassock until they shone. He offered one to Oswald with a smile.

“I thought I was supposed to be doing the temptation.” 

Oswald threw the apple in the air, but caught it in the next second.  _ “In the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.” _

They bit their apples at the same time, watching each other.

Jim woke up with a start, chest heaving as he looked out his window.

The apple tree stood barren outside, and Jim let his head fall back on the pillow with a thud.

* * *

James forced himself to take things slow from then onwards, determined not to fall ill again. He slept in and made sure he ate regularly, so that his strength would come back fast. He wasn't sure why he had subjected himself to such an ordeal – it had to be all the things happening at once, his hidden worries and bad memories stirred up suddenly. Of course, at the centre of all this was Oswald, though Jim knew that he was not to be blamed. Well, maybe a little. He did start the fire, but maybe Jim wanted to burn. 

Nevertheless, Jim couldn't stop his overactive mind. Before, he always found solace in the church itself. He enjoyed the magnificent building, the old stones that must have seen so much history, the majestic atmosphere with the burning candles, and the sublime feelings it evoked. Jim loved to just sit in a pew and contemplate his surroundings, discover new details on the altarpiece and rose windows. He always felt closer to God in there alone than during any public sermon or ritual while wearing his ecclesiastical garments.

However, after his illness and subsequent meetings with Oswald, doubt started seeping into his heart, even in the church. Its usual tranquility lended itself to his doubts becoming ever louder. What if Oswald was right and he didn't need religion? What if all the rituals were just founded to distract people from the greed and rot of the system itself?

He thought about how he'd become a priest. Back then, it seemed like the most natural decision of his life. The one that made most sense and the one that  _ gave a sense _ to his life. Jim wondered if it had been a good decision to set aside every other interest and skill he'd had in order to pursue this vocation. As a child, he wanted to be a policeman. He liked the idea of doing good and bringing justice to people, protecting those in need. Wouldn't this be similar to being a priest? The moral issues would also follow, but perhaps on a smaller scale, and he didn't have to choose between God and the King of Hell every day.

After all, Oswald had told him that his image had been distorted, presented by the Church as the absolute evil. Knowing him for a while now, Jim didn't really believe the claim anymore. He'd seen Oswald commit acts of kindness, though Jim wondered just how much was underlaid by questionable intentions. But if he truly wanted to gain one on God, Oswald could have just let James fall in the church, let him be consumed by fever, and taken by death. Surely one less priest in the world would have made his life easier. 

Jim opened his eyes, his whole body stiff from kneeling in front of the altar for hours. He didn't know how long he'd been there. He looked around, but the walls were silent, the saints and Jesus on the rose windows watching him, but their faces drawn in, unrevealing.

He started shivering, as if he could not live with the side of him that agreed with Oswald, the one that would have joined him with open arms in a heartbeat. Father James wanted to think that part was infinitesimally small, but it just spread and spread, conquering his body and mind. 

"I know this is shameful for a man in my position to request, but please God, give me a sign,” Jim looked up for a moment, then back at his clasped hands. “I might have deviated from the right path, but I know you’ll forgive me. Please, just give me a sign that you’re still here. Please.”

* * *

Jim tried not to think of his desperate prayer, put it behind him like a moment of weakness when his faith had wavered. It was something perfectly normal - every priest went through something similar once in their life. His faith was tested, and after it would just become stronger. 

At least that's what Father James told himself, even as his mind indulged in scenarios where he said yes to Oswald. Where he would just walk out of the church and be free for the rest of his life. The prospect seemed frighteningly thrilling.

His reverie was interrupted by Deacon Alvarez, who came to check if he was ready to start working on the quarterly report for the Bishop. Father James nodded, and so they went to do the assessment first, checking the church assets and whether they had suffered any damage. It was a rather tedious task, having to look at each artifact, but Jim was glad to occupy his mind with the divine.

The Deacon was checking the things while Father James had a clipboard, taking notes and writing down observations. The church would have benefited greatly from major renovation works, but Jim knew the Bishop would never approve such an enormous sum to their small church.

“Father James.”

Jim looked up from his paper as the deacon’s voice trailed off. He went down the aisle, where Alvarez was standing, staring straight ahead. 

Then Jim saw it.

It was their Mary statue, the Our Lady of Sorrows.

She was weeping.

At first neither of them moved.

Then Alvarez made the sign of the cross while Jim grabbed the nearest pew as his knees were buckling, slowly taking a seat as tears rushed into his eyes.

God had given him the sign.

Jim wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he approached the statue with trembling legs, hoping he wasn’t irreverent.

“Maybe it’s just condensation,” Deacon Alvarez said.

“Maybe.”

But neither of them really believed that. It had never happened before, not even in the hottest summer. 

Jim gently touched Mary’s cheek with a tissue, collecting a tiny amount of the mysterious liquid. They looked at the pale yellow drop with Alvarez, then Jim’s nose picked up a familiar miasma. He brought the tissue to his nose and his eyes closed in recognition. He knew what this scent was. It was chrism, the oil and perfume mix that he used to draw the cross on the forehead of babies he christened. It was the substance that had been applied to his palms when he was anointed as a priest.

“We need to call the Bishop.”

Many hours later, Jim lay sleepless in his bed. He looked at the photos on his phone, the ones he had already emailed to the Bishop. He could still smell the sweet chrism. Hope blossomed in his chest, bright and unstoppable. He didn't have to decide on anything. God had finally taken mercy on him, and had made the decision for him. 

* * *

Word got out about the weeping Mary statue, and people started coming in, first out of curiosity, then in order to witness a real miracle. Jim had told no one,  _ had _ no one to actually tell about this, so he assumed Deacon Alvarez had mentioned it to someone. Even in the day of computers, word of mouth was the most effective way of spreading news.

The day after, Jim found three people already waiting in front of the church door in the morning. Surprised, as he hadn't seen them before, he let them in. They talked in hushed voices at first, which soon became excited as they found the statue. Jim stood at the side, watching with awe as they all made the sign of cross, and two of them even kneeled down, devotion clearly written on their faces. 

People started streaming in after that, Jim greeting them with polite smiles, watching his little church fill up like it had never before. They worked hard with Deacon Alvarez; kept the church open until late into the night so that every believer could marvel at the statue and say their prayer. 

While the Bishop was still stalling, people took pictures, and some ended up on social media. Once on the internet, the pictures were quick to reach news stations, and soon all the local channels were showing footage of it. Jim was sweating profusely in the light of the cameras, hoping that his stumbling over his words be taken as emotion raised by this fantastic phenomenon. He was cautious with his words; he did not call it a miracle or say anything that his superiors might not agree with. But he did add that the church was always open for everyone.

The TV reports had one positive outcome; Bishop Barnes showed up to the church the next day, huffing as he made his way through the throng of people who only let him pass once they had noticed his cassock.

Jim froze when he saw him, even though he’d been expecting the man to show up. Bishop Barnes was a fair and devout man, extremely pedantic and traditional. He was famous for his black and white beliefs, a true rock of faith. He was tall and well-built, imposing from the first glance. Jim had a healthy amount of fear and respect towards him, not only because Bishop Barnes could easily tower over him, but he always felt as if the Bishop’s eyes could see right through him.

“Father James. Could we talk in private?”

“Of course, let’s go to my office.”

Then the Bishop turned towards Deacon Alvarez, and said in a commanding tone: “Send away the crowd.”

Jim rubbed his sweaty palms against his trousers, squaring his back when the door was closed. The military past of Bishop Barnes was evident in each of his movements and even the way he spoke, not a single redundant word in his speech.

“What is that circus outside, Jim?”

“They came to see the Mary statue. The one I had called about earlier in the week.”

“You should have waited for my arrival!” Barnes roared.

“With all due respect, sir, we could not close the church.” Jim took up a defensive stance with his hands on his hips. “People wanted to come and pray.”

“Yes, you could. Or keep the press away at least.”

Jim frowned. “I believe all the declarations were in line with the Church. I never called this a miracle or encouraged people to do so.”

“No, but you didn’t tell people not to either! And now every damn paper and news channel is out there, reporting about it, and you bet not all of them are falling to their feet to show it in a good light.”

“You mean it’s reported as fake?”

“The sculpture is crying, does that seem like a good sign to you?”

Jim looked up sharply. "What?"

Barnes looked at him as if Jim were stupid. "Mary is crying, it's not exactly a positive sign." 

Jim's lips parted, but the protest died on them. It hadn't even crossed his mind that the phenomenon could be interpreted as anything but good. Surely this could only be a divine benefaction? It had happened before, and those places always became pilgrimage sites, where people swore miracles happened and where their illnesses were cured.

He looked at the Bishop who was studying him with a softer expression, perhaps with pity. Jim really didn’t care for it.

“Show me the statue.”

They stood watching Mary for a good while. Jim tried to decipher the Bishop’s expression, but it was an impossible task.

“You said the tears are chrism?”

“Yes, I touched a napkin when we noticed. We haven’t dared touch it since.”

Bishop Barnes, much to Jim’s consternation, wiped his index finger against Mary’s cheek, then rubbed it against his thumb. He smelled it, brows knitting at once, but he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll send someone tomorrow to investigate.”

* * *

The arrival of the Bishop’s ‘specialist’ seemed to attract even more attention from the media. While the scientist took the samples and made his tests inside, the reporters and believers were left to wait in front of the church. Father James decided to go back to his house, thinking he would manage to take off his mind of this whole affair.

Mindlessly, he turned on his old tv, hoping to find a nature documentary. However, as the image came onto the screen, it was on the local channel, the morning news showing a short report about the Church and the Mary of Our Sorrows. The reporter had interviewed some of the people who had been queuing in front of the church. 

“God has smiled down on our little town,” a middle-aged woman said with confidence.

A younger man behind her scoffed. “It’s all lies,” he said loudly, and the camera focused on him. “This can’t signify anything good, it’s-it’s a distraction from something. The Church, as an institution, is rotten from the inside, they’re all rotten. The Madonna is crying for us. For our sins.”

The news anchor then took over. “As you can see, opinions are very much divided. The Catholic Church sent an expert who is currently conducting tests. Our request for an interview with Father James and Bishop Barnes have been denied, quoting that they are not allowed to talk about this until the expert’s report is published.”

Jim had barely had time to process all this when the screen suddenly changed, Oswald staring right at him. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over Jim, his heart pumping madly.

“Don’t look so scared, Jim.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Liar,” Oswald said with a smile. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

This was an undisputable statement. Jim looked away.

“I’ve been busy.”

“So I’ve seen. Your church is finally full, people are flocking to you.”

Jim looked into Oswald’s eyes, raising his chin defiantly. “They need a sign of hope. Reassurance.”

Oswald nodded. “Of course. But this is your reassurance as well, isn’t it? That you didn’t waste all those years on a being who doesn’t care what’s going on with his puppets.”

“I know you’re just trying to rile me up.”

“And is it working?” Oswald whispered into Jim’s ear, suddenly manifested next to him.

"Absolutely not," Jim lied through his teeth, even as the slightest whiff of Oswald's perfume made him weak.

It became almost unbearable when Oswald reached out and touched his face. "Let me be your messiah, Jim."

"I already have one."

"Not the right one," Oswald said quietly, his thumb stroking Jim's cheek. 

It was taking a lot of effort not to lean into the touch.

"I can help you become better. Transcend this form, this world." 

Jim shook his head. "No, no, I can't."

"Leave behind the suffering, and start a new life with no limits. A life by my side." 

Jim scrambled onto his feet, stumbling backwards with a panicked look. "That would be blasphemous!" He looked around desperately, but there were no crosses nearby that he could use if Oswald tried another trick on him.

"Come on, darling, would it really be so bad?" 

The voice was soft and coming somehow from behind Jim. Just before he could turn around, Oswald wound his arms around him. It was a secure hold, but if Jim had tried, he could wiggle out.

"Aren't you tired of the relentless loneliness?" Oswald's sharp eyes looked at him searchingly, and Jim couldn't look away. "Everyone averts their eyes, but I see you, James. I can give you all you want.” Oswald promised in a voice smooth as velvet, lips barely grazing Jim’s skin.

For a moment, Jim closed his eyes and let himself lean against Oswald's chest. It was so freeing, as if he had been pushed underwater and now he could finally resurface and breathe again. Oswald smiled down at the priest, delicately turning Jim's chin towards him, the tips of their noses touching. His finger glided down from Jim’s lower lip down the arch of his neck, leaving fire in its wake. 

Jim knew that a kiss from those lips would grant him knowledge that no other human would ever be able to possess, the very secrets of the universe.

But choosing that would mean going against everything his life was about, everything his parents had taught him. 

“I'm sorry, Oswald,” Jim said, voice low, throat constricted with pain.

Oswald leaned his forehead against Jim's temple, while his arms tightened just short of painful around Jim. Maybe he should have been afraid, but instead Jim wanted to apologise for hurting Oswald, despite how ridiculous it sounded. 

“I respect your decision, Jim. You proved time and again what a strong person you are," Oswald said, his arms dropping from around Jim. "But listen to me. This whole thing, the miracle, it won't last. I've seen it before. The people, the benefactors, the love, it will all dissipate in no time."

Jim took a step back, and they looked at each other, like two friends in front of a crossroads,who inevitably have to say goodbye. 

"I just want you to know that in the end, when everything is gone, and you think everyone has abandoned you, I will be there for you. You'll just have to call my name and I'll be there."

Oswald disappeared just as suddenly as he had appeared, and Jim stood on shaky legs, burying his face in his hands. 

* * *

Jim’s chest tightened each time he stepped into the church. He told himself it was silly to jump every time someone addressed him, but he feared Oswald would be back to plead with him, and this time he wouldn't be able to resist. 

The people still kept coming, so Father James and Deacon Alvarez were always busy. They had to extend confessional hours, and when Sunday rolled in, the church was so crowded that the door had to be left open so people outside could listen to the sermon. When Jim stepped behind the altar, his eyes were teary. This was what he was meant to do. His voice rang out proudly when the whole congregation sang a hymn. Afterwards, Jim spoke from the heart, felt every eye on him, knew that all those people had opened their hearts to his message of peace and love.

After the sermon, Jim stood in the church door and shook hands with everyone. ‘Wonderful sermon’ and ‘Father, that was a beautiful service’ were uttered with utmost respect, and Jim smiled warmly at everyone. Deacon Alvarez too told him that it was the best sermon he’d delivered, and Jim really believed him. He felt it, and felt he accomplished what he was meant to be doing.

The next Sunday brought somewhat less congregation members, but there were still people who didn’t get a seat in one of the pews. Jim spoke from the heart, saw the spark in the eyes of people, the determination to go out and do better. 

And so with every week, the number of people dwindled, but Father James refused to be disheartened. This was not the time to lose momentum. He called the Bishop’s office, chased after an official stance on the matter, but every time the reply was the same: the results weren’t ready yet.

It was about six weeks later that Alvarez handed Jim a letter with the Bishop’s stamp on it. They looked at each other, and Jim wondered if they were thinking the same, that the letter had a negative aura, that it was too thin, like a college application letter, and that surely, the Bishop would have called if they considered the tears as real.

Thus, Jim opened it with the calmness of a prisoner who’s walking down on death row and knows there’s nothing to save himself. His hands weren’t shaking at all. He saw the words ‘We are sorry to inform you’, and that was enough, he folded the letter back as it was, and when Alvarez looked at him inquisitively, he shook his head.

If that hadn’t been enough, the media somehow got wind of the news, and made dramatic reports about how the Mary statue was a fake, and Jim an impostor, even though the Bishop’s statement had only said the results were inconclusive. With the scandal blown out of proportion, people were starting to abandon the church. Jim was sure that it was only some kind of faint sparkle of respect or fear that stopped them from egging the building, so they showed their displeasure the only way they could: they stopped showing up for mass.

Jim told himself that as long as he had the statue as proof, it was all going to be alright. There must have been hundreds of pictures and videos too. He could request a new investigation, maybe he could even completely forgo Bishop Barnes if he proved difficult, and go directly to his superior. There was hope yet still.

The first mass after the news broke, the church was still attended by a good number of believers, although there were many free spots too. The corners of Jim's lips turned down imperceptibly at the sight, but he didn't dwell too much on it. It was alright, Jim knew he could get through it. He was sure that there had been believers who came because they liked the community and the peace they had found, not just a potential miraculous statue. 

Two more weeks wore on, and things were less positive. Father James started noticing the accusatory looks, the murmured names they called him. The words 'fake' and 'quack prophet' followed him, the media writing awful things about how this was a plot to gain believers and their money. Someone even had the gall to throw a stone wrapped in the newspaper article, breaking his office window. 

"We should report this," the Deacon advised. 

Father James shook his head. "I don't think there's any point." 

"We can't let people destroy church property!"

A sad smile passed Jim's lips as he gathered the shards. "They'll forget about us. We'll be an old story soon." 

His words proved right. That Sunday, only seven congregation members showed up, all of them loyal from before the whole weeping statue affair. Jim’s heart was aching, but he smiled at them, delivered his sermon as well as a broken man could. Not even the encouraging words of the old ladies managed to make it better.

After closing the church, Father James went to retrieve his Bible and the papers with his typed sermon. He checked the pews to see if anyone had forgotten anything. Normally, this wasn’t Jim’s task, but he needed to occupy himself, so he had sent Deacon Alvarez home. Besides, he knew the Deacon had been concerned lately, and Jim wanted him to have a quiet afternoon. 

The last thing to do was to have a sweeping look over the church, which included checking on the Mary statue as well. Father James had been avoiding it lately, fearing that he might throw some chosen words at it, or even push it off its pedestal. The Immaculate Mary sounded hollow now. 

This time, however, it was shock that made him stop on unsteady legs. He thought it was because of the light, but it seemed as if the Mary statue had stopped crying. 

"No, no, no, no," Jim breathed, panic washing over him like a cold wave. 

But once he was in front of the statue he could see that Mary's eyes were now dry, and there were no streaks on her cheeks either. It was as if the whole weeping episode had never even happened. 

The short-lived spark of hope in Jim’s chest was snuffed cruelly.

* * *

Jim left the church in his cassock, and just walked and walked to the forest at the edge of the town. His feet seemed to carry him automatically; he walked along a creek, following the meandering line as he tried to detangle and follow his own thoughts.

It had happened, just as Oswald had predicted. Jim could not prove it, but he was sure that the church’s findings had been modified to fit the Bishop’s agenda. He didn’t want all the drama and scrutiny that would follow if it was revealed that the statue’s tears had been genuine. However, by proclaiming that the tears were fake, Bishop Barnes had taken away Father James’s credibility. Maybe he didn’t do it intentionally, but he had planted the seed of doubt in everyone. Even those old ladies, who were still attending mass, had probably asked themselves if Father James was a false prophet.

It was unfair of the Bishop to ostracise him like this. That was why the Church was just a distorted reflection of true faith: it was ruled by corrupted men, who fought for power, and acted out their selfish actions in the name of a benevolent God.

He could take his complaint to higher ups, but was there any point? The old men would just hum and haw, saying it was inconclusive, and side with the Bishop. It wasn’t like the statue was still crying so that Jim could demand a new, independent study.

Jim realised it was a terrible thing to know the truth, but to be unable to prove it. From this day onward, however, he would have to do this futile exercise; like Sisyphus, he would have to roll his stone day after day, calling it a good one when no one kicked him.

There was a boulder ahead and Jim decided to stop and catch his breath. Only when he sat did he realise how badly his feet hurt, and he was cold, feeling the chill on his back damp with sweat. He looked around, but beside the susurrus of the creek there was no other sound. Everything stood still. He could die here, and no one would ever know or care. They would just think he had ran away from his disgraced life.

Jim clenched his teeth. He got up and with the last rays of the Sun, found his way out of the forest, threading with quick but decisive steps. The light reminded him of that early morning when Oswald had kissed him for the first time. It felt like a whole lifetime ago, but recalling the memory was easy, something that was replayed often. Jim couldn’t help wondering whether Oswald had forgotten about him as well. He had told Jim that he’d just have to call him and he’d be there, and Jim had half a mind to try it, but then he wasn’t sure if he could stand in front of him and not break down. 

That wasn’t how he’d imagined joining Oswald if he were to choose that path.

So he pressed on, dragging his life behind him. Once he found the edge of the forest, it was easy. There was enough light to see the spire of the church with the cross on top, and Jim walked in that direction with a bowed head. There was silence in his head, a deep, deep silence that he didn’t try to break.

* * *

It wasn’t a particularly scary dream, but his father was there and Jim was small again, just a boy, and trying to explain how he broke his mom’s favourite vase or something, but his dad didn’t want to listen, he was scolding and telling Jim he was a bad boy, a disappointment, and Jim was heartbroken and crying and calling for his dad, but his dad turned his back and walked away.

Jim woke shaking with sobs, couldn’t stop, even though he knew it had been just a dream. He pressed his face against his pillow, trying to block the images, but they were just as vivid and painful.

His lips formed the name without a sound.

Something soft caressed Jim’s face, wiping away his hot tears.

"Jim..." 

Jim was still crying, though his breath hitched when he recognised the voice.

"Os-Oswald."

The touch on his face became more assertive, and Jim sensed warmth behind his back as a body settled next to his.

"I'm here."

Oswald embraced Jim from behind, and Jim took his arm and brought him closer, relishing his comforting presence. Jim turned around, vaguely making out Oswald's shape, his head fitting perfectly on Oswald’s shoulder. The King of Hell didn’t complain one bit about his soaked shirt.

"Will you stay with me?” Jim asked very quietly.

“Always.” 

Oswald stroked his hair until Jim fell in a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Oswald had not shown up in Jim’s life after that, although Jim was certain that if he were to call the King of Hell, he would be there in an instant. Although tempted to do just that, he needed time to think, alone. It was finally clear that things had to change. He had a big decision to make.

Meditation and prayer in the empty church proved useful. Jim only wished he could have the counsel of his parents, although he doubted they would even seriously let him consider leaving. He wondered if he even had it in himself to go against something they so deeply ingrained in his life, in himself. Resigning from his job didn’t mean the same as to stop believing in God, though. But would it ever feel the same, though?

Joining Oswald, however, was like jumping off a cliff into deep waters on a moonless night. He would be deep diving into the unknown, without the slightest idea of what the trip or the destination would look like. The only thing he knew was that he would find Oswald at the end. Would that be enough to take a leap of faith?

On the third day, Jim knew what his decision would be. He opened his eyes to brilliant sunshine filtering through the rose window, a kaleidoscope of colour spread everywhere. He loved this place, loved each part of it, the old stone walls, the squeaky uncomfortable pews, the beautiful altar. Even the cursed Mary statue. He remembered the first sermon he had delivered, his voice quivering under the curious gaze of his congregation. All the baptisms and marriages, the funerals, the confessions, the time he spent sneakily reading in there, waiting for someone to come.

Father James went into his office and wrote a letter to the Bishop swiftly, but carefully. He read it over, then signed it. Thought about taking it to the post office at once, but there was a thunder out of the blue. Jim looked outside the window – the sky darkened suddenly with the promise of a big storm. The letter could wait another day. With a last look at the cross, Jim locked the church doors, and hurried across the yard to his small house.

The remaining leaves on the trees murmured in a secret language, but Jim had a bad feeling as he made sure that every window was closed. The wind made creepy sounds through his attic, and his room felt chilly, so he decided to make a fire. The only nice thing about living in an old house was the fireplace, which was a blessing on cold winter nights.

A deep, rumbling thunder interrupted the silence, and Jim flinched. He looked up from his crouched position in front of the fireplace, counting the seconds between the next lightning and thunder. It was a trick his dad taught him, to know how far away the storm was.

Raindrops started hitting the window rather aggressively, blurring everything outside. Jim could only see shapeless blobs, the trees by the side of the road swaying, bending under the wind. Jim hoped no one was out in this awful weather as he watched the fire come to life in the fireplace. Soon, his room would feel much nicer.

Jim inspected his fridge, hoping there were leftovers so he didn’t have to cook. He had been saving a lasagne, and tonight seemed like the perfect time to eat it. There was also some chicken noodle soup left, which he didn’t want to waste. He was woken from his reverie by a thunder so loud, Jim could swear he felt the vibration in the ground, the whipping sound reverberating in his head and making his skin break out in goosebumps.

He was searching for a spoon in his drawer. Before he could pick one, there was a knock on his door, and Jim turned around frowning. Who could it be in this weather?

His mouth opened slightly as the man behind the door proved to be Oswald. He was completely drenched, his hair stuck to his forehead. He raised his gaze then, lips trembling. Jim sucked in a breath when he noticed the giant black eye. He was in terrible condition.

“Jesus, Oswald, what happened? Come in!”

Jim put his hand on Oswald’s shoulder, and he could feel that Oswald’s coat was completely soaked. He seemed unresponsive until his eyes flickered to the fireplace. Jim noticed his gaze, but Oswald needed to get out of those wet clothes first. He didn't know whether Oswald could catch a cold, but it had to be uncomfortable anyway.

“Come, you need to change,” Jim said, guiding Oswald towards the bathroom. “You can find towels in the cupboard, I'll bring you some dry clothes.”

Jim hurried to his room, opening the drawers. Oswald was always so elegant, nothing he owned seemed good enough for him. But right that moment, anything was better than his drenched suit, so in the end Jim picked a pair of grey track pants and a khaki pullover. His mom had bought it years ago and though it had become too small for him, he didn't have the heart to give it away to charity.

He knocked on the bathroom door, then gave the clothes to Oswald. “Sorry, I know they're not your style and they're kind of used…”

Oswald's cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, finally looking the priest in the eyes. “They're completely fine. Thank you, James.”

Jim nodded, mesmerised by the intensity in his eyes. He went to the kitchen, still dazed, then remembered to place the lasagne in the oven to reheat it and the soup in the microwave. Oswald needed something warm.

A couple of minutes later, Oswald emerged from the bathroom in Jim's clothes, rubbing his hair with a towel. It stuck up in all the directions and Jim couldn't help but smile at him.

“Something funny, James?” he asked, stalking up to the priest and looking at him with raised eyebrows.

Jim was certain not many people or beings stood up to Oswald, but he had to grin. “Actually, yes. Your hair.”

He reached out and smoothed Oswald's rebellious lock, marvelling at its softness. Jim blushed at the gesture, then went back to the kitchen, rambling to cover his embarrassment.

“I have some leftovers, so it's great that you're here. Chicken soup is the best when you're cold,” he said, placing plates on the table, as the microwave pinged. “I don't even know if you eat, though.” He hoped that hint of panic in his voice wasn’t too obvious.

Oswald sat across from Jim, watching him with an amused smile. “I don't have to eat, but I like to do it from time to time. Thank you.”

They enjoyed their food in silence while the storm rumbled outside. Jim wanted to ask Oswald about what happened and how he got the black eye, but he didn't know how to bring it up. He also seemed to have a more pronounced limp than before, though mentioning that would be extremely rude, so Jim kept to himself.

After the soup, Jim served the lasagne. It was a lot better than he expected, so he couldn't hold back a moan when the cheesy goodness hit his taste buds.

“Enjoying it, are you?” Oswald teased, but his own portion was quickly vanishing too.

“Oh yes. Best comfort food there is.” 

“If I had known you're so easily swayed by lasagna, I would have brought it the first time we met.”

Jim laughed. “Oh yes, that would have worked well. I would have broken down the door of the confessional. Made you run away.”

“I think I can handle one lasagna-obsessed priest.”

Their laughter finally broke the tension for the rest of their dinner. Afterwards, Jim told Oswald to go and sit in front of the fireplace. He washed the dishes, then took a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and wrapped it in a kitchen towel.

“Here, this should help with the swelling.” 

Maybe it was bold, but Jim sat next to Oswald, holding up the bag to his eye. The look he gave Jim was like an arrow to the heart, his blue-green eyes watching him from behind his black fringe. Jim's lips parted slightly, the fire from Oswald's gaze flaming up inside him, his affection growing exponentially.

“Thank you, James. You're too kind.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Oswald swallowed. “I had a fight.”

“Thought so. But with whom?”

“You don't need to worry about it, James.”

Jim scoffed. “Of course, I do. How could I not? Was it… uh, one of the demons?”

Oswald shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”

“What? Why?!”

Oswald looked down, but Jim took his chin and gently tilted it up. “Come on, Oswald. You know you can tell me.”

“I couldn't let Him keep torturing you, alright? You didn't do anything to deserve it. To go through all the suffering.”

Jim sat in stunned silence. “You… you fought God?  _ For me? _ ”

“His goons, but yes.”

“Oswald…” Jim was mortified, but he'd never felt more loved than in that moment. He took away the freezer bag, cupping Oswald's face. “You could have been seriously hurt.”

It was Oswald's turn to be surprised, eyes widening. He put his hand over Jim's, nuzzling against it. “Worth it.”

Jim was so flustered, he couldn't utter a single word. He hated removing his hand, but Oswald's eye was still swollen, so he put back the freezer bag. “You're crazy, you know that?”

Oswald shrugged. “It's in my job description.”

“Really? Was the job advertisement something like ‘King of Hell. Must be sassy, well-dressed and handsome. Craziness is essential. Serious candidates only.’”

“You think I'm handsome?”

Jim floundered, then buried his face in Oswald's shoulder, laughter shaking his whole body. “That's all you've got from that?”

“I've been trying to flirt with you for weeks now, James, without knowing whether it was working.”

Without thinking, Jim kissed Oswald's neck. His skin was warm, all the signs of the storm gone now. He stayed like that, with his head in the crook of Oswald's neck, until he felt fingers carding through his hair.

Jim looked up, meeting Oswald's affectionate gaze. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Their lips met in a sweet kiss, Oswald's fingers caressing Jim's nape. It was just as good as their first kiss, though this time there was no trace of anxiety in Jim. He had to smile against Oswald's lips, unable to contain it.

“You have a gorgeous smile, James. You should show it more often.”

Oswald didn't let Jim hide, he went in for another kiss, this one more fierce. It was as if they wanted to melt against each other, pressing closer and closer. Jim opened up and let Oswald take over, his tongue doing positively sinful things. Jim's fingers clasped Oswald's pullover, the thought alone of sliding his hand under the fabric and feeling Oswald's smooth skin underneath making him lose his mind.

However, his fingertips had barely brushed under the hem of the pullover when Oswald broke the kiss, panting against Jim's cheek. His lips were red, eyes lit up and Jim wondered if it would be crazy if he invited him to stay the night. Maybe it was too forward. He didn't know what to do.

Oswald had probably sensed his dilemma as he smoothed the priest's hair, smiling at him. “It’s alright, Jim. We can just stay here and wait for the storm to pass.”

“No, no… I mean, I’d like to go on,” Jim whispered, slotting their lips together. His touch was more assertive now, hands smoothly gliding under Oswald’s pullover, mapping out his back.

Thunder was rumbling in the background, but everything was so cosy and warm in there. The fire was gently cracking and Jim faintly registered the wind howling, but he was preoccupied with how smooth Oswald’s skin was, especially after Oswald let go let Jim take off his pullover. Jim kissed his shoulders and collarbones, faintly painted in gold by the fire. A gentle rhythm began between them, a push and pull, leaving Jim wanting more, the fire stoked and stoked, until there was only desire on their mind. 

However, there was one thing Jim was dying to reveal.

“I’m leaving the Church,” Jim admitted against Oswald’s lips, body rocking against Oswald’s, seeking friction desperately. “I wrote the letter to the Bishop, it’s in my office.”

“What?” Oswald stopped him, both hands cupping Jim’s face, eyes blazing as they took in his determined expression. “Is this true?”

Jim nodded solemnly. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving.”

And with that, Jim removed his clerical collar, as a symbolic gesture, but also an invitation for Oswald to ravish his neck with kisses.

Oswald didn’t waste any time; he unbuttoned Jim’s shirt and kissed the exposed skin, his teeth grazing Jim’s neck just slightly, an urgency to his every touch, to feel more. Jim threw his head back, lost in the rhythm, hissing whenever Oswald’s erection met his. He wasn’t sure how long he could bear the barrier of clothes between them.

“Are you sure about this?” Oswald asked, catching Jim’s wrist as he was about to pull Oswald’s trousers down. “You won’t be able to go back after this.”

Whatever ‘this’ meant, Jim had never been more certain of anything.

“I want to be yours,” Jim whispered against Oswald’s lips, and the remainders of their clothes were thrown off, hot skin slapping against hot skin.

Oswald swallowed the words from Jim’s lips, savoured them on his tongue, and finally took Jim into his hand, evincing needy moans from him. He smirked as if he had achieved some kind of victory, tracing Jim’s lips with his index finger. Jim parted his lips and sucked Oswald’s finger in, coating it with saliva. Oswald watched, fascinated, adding his middle finger too as if it were a challenge. When he was satisfied, he drew them out and directed them to Jim’s opening, circling it gently before entering one finger.

This was something new for Jim, but he had no issues, smiling at Oswald encouragingly. His mouth hung open when the second finger was added, though. Oswald made his movements slower but more impactful, watching Jim’s face intently for any signs of pain. But Jim only tightened his grip on Oswald’s shoulder, pushing back against his fingers.

“Do you like that, Jim?”

Jim mumbled, slamming his lips against Oswald, breathing hard as Oswald removed his fingers. He wanted to protest about it, but then Oswald hoisted Jim closer on his lap, lodging his dick between Jim’s cheeks in the process, tip just grazing his hole, but not entering, driving Jim crazy.

“I want to feel you. Please.”

Oswald drove in slowly, and it burnt, but Jim closed his eyes and let himself feel everything, right until Oswald was completely inside him, very hard. It started out slow and careful, Oswald kissing his jaw and stroking his back, and Jim’s moans got louder and his thigh muscles strained with the ever faster up and down movements.

“Yes, yes,” Jim moaned and kissed Oswald fiercely.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” Oswald licked Jim’s neck, his hips pistoning fast into the spot that made Jim cry out.

“Oswald!”

“You’re mine, Jim.

Jim thought the flames from the fireplace had escaped; he wasn’t sure if it was just the intensity and delirium, Oswald’s words marked by a thrust to his prostate, but he thought the whole room was engulfed by flames, and their bodies were about to explode. The flames were licking at their skins, and he only needed a spark.

“Tell me, Jim. What do you want?” Oswald was panting, while he kept ramming into Jim with each question, holding his attention captive.

“You, only you.”

“You’re going to come with me to Hell.”

“Yes!”

“And rule it with me.”

Jim whimpered, he was  _ so _ close, but words completely eluded him. He put his arms around Oswald’s neck, holding on tight, crying out when Oswald started jerking him off, simultaneously with his thrusts. It didn’t take long before Jim started coming all over Oswald’s stomach, and he held even tighter. 

Oswald fucked him hard through his climax, and Jim could barely keep his eyes open to see Oswald coming, his eyes reflecting the flames and hips erratically pistoning, then grabbing onto Jim and sharing a hot kiss, sealing both of their fates. Although Jim had never had this experience before, he knew something more had happened than just sex. His fingers sought out Oswald’s  –  entwining them just felt natural.

In the back of his mind, Jim expected a wave of guilt for having committed probably several sins, but instead he floated on happiness, relief and even hope. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Oswald asked with a lazy smile, brushing Jim’s hair away from his forehead.

“Did you mean what you said before? About me… joining you?”

“Of course, if that’s what you want.”

Jim nodded. “Yes, I’d love to then.”

They kissed, and Jim felt it again, that this was more than it seemed on the surface. 

When he let go, Jim saw that Oswald had a huge grin on his face. “What are you smiling about?”

“You’re going to look great in a crown.”


End file.
